By Edvard MunchI would far rather be an outcastupon the bosom of the great worldthan to be an accomplice to a moral nothingness,rather a bloody spark that no hand will shieldthat glows wildly and is extinguishedand obliterated with no tracethan glow as a lampwith a calm measured flameevening after eveningin that eternal sitting-roomwhere the canary slumbersin its blanket-covered cageand time is slowly counted outby the old sitting-room clock.No the spark has the abilityto light the fireand to know that it was responsiblefor the sound of the fire sirento know it was responsiblefor the sea of flamesthat broke with traditionand turned the hourglass upside down.